


Sherlock and John: Stag Night Redux

by summer_days_winter_nights



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunken Kissing, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 09:12:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11181606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summer_days_winter_nights/pseuds/summer_days_winter_nights
Summary: The stag night that should have been! We know how it was supposed to go...:)





	1. Big Night

**Author's Note:**

> I had a great time re-routing our boys in the direction we all know they're meant to go in! I hope you enjoy. Its so great to have this community to share our love for this show and this relationship. I love reading all of what you write.

 

 

Sherlock:

This would undoubtedly go down on record as one of the worst nights of my life.

No, given the importance of this person, and the enormity of what I was about to lose, no, this was the worst night of my life, to be certainly followed by the worst day of my life. The night before John Watson would be married, and the day he would leave me forever.

Of course, he and Mary had been busy reassuring me that nothing would change, and that we’d go on as some merry threesome, John and I enjoying saving the world as we chased criminals up and down the streets of London, and he and Mary apparently building a life happily ever after. Nothing sounded worse to me.

First off, I didn’t even believe the first part, that my access to him would be uninterrupted, that he’d be jumping up from dinner tables full of crying children to come chase around with me. Though knowing John, he’d much rather be racing toward risk and disaster than wiping small noses. Nonetheless, at a certain point, limits on his availability would be inevitable.

But no, worse still would be that he _would_ keep running with me, he’d keep climbing the stairs at Baker Street, he’d keep leaning over my shoulder as we researched hypotheses on the internet, breathing hard with me as we tackled whoever needed tackling, smiling his approval with his beautiful smile when something finally clicked or I figured it all out.

Then…to have to be left alone in 221B, watching his back disappear as he walked down the stairs, or even following him down to the front door to say goodnight, thank you, to lean my head as close to his as I could, to inhale him as much as possible before he was swallowed up by his life without me. Too much to bear.

You see, I had two problems.

The first was that, for a long time, I had been almost completely unaware of the feelings I’d had for this army doctor who’d changed my life four years ago. To be sure, throughout our time together, there were always these sparks of attraction, jolts of arousal, moments of innuendo. I’d look up as from a day dream, consider with the barest awareness the possibility of taking things further with him, and then tuck the idea away again, certain that “there’d be time in the future” to pursue these fantasies. Alas.

Indeed, it was only when I’d spent the agonizing two years away from him that it became clearer and clearer to me what he meant to me.

Actually, I’d been dreaming about him since the moment I left. But then, the dreams became more confusing, more…more emotional. I actually began imagining him rescuing me, or at least finding me somehow, and we’d finish off what we needed to together. Then I’d remember, with great regret, that he’d never come find me, as much as I might be longing for that, because I’d seen to it. Not only would he never be able to find me, he would not even be looking, as I’d so convincingly died to one and all (or almost all).

Nonetheless, he’d be in my dreams almost every night, holding me, pressing me to him, caressing the back of my head with his hand. It felt like I was melting. I had such joy in the dream, and then despair upon awakening.

Then, particularly if I’d imagined holding him as I fell asleep, the dreams became frankly more sexual. I still feel aroused as I remember it, clearly knowing I was asleep, yet getting so hard at the same time. His lips on my neck, his breath in my ear, his hands skimming down my side, stroking my cock…

_Jesus, John…._

Then I’d wake up, rutting against the air, the blanket. I’d picture his beautiful face, creasing in ecstasy, moaning my name, and I’d come. Delicious. And then I felt like crying for missing him. I had to get home.

So, as I said, my first problem: only realizing that I was madly in love with my flatmate when I was half a world away, and he thought I was dead.

Second problem: hubris.

Not a surprising character trait given who I am, really. But in this form, I held the complete assumption that John would be waiting for me, exactly as I’d left him, able to pick up with me from where we’d left off, with me now achingly clear on what I needed from him. Easy. Of course, I’d presumed that just as his life had re-started when he’d met me, that without me, it would basically stop, go on hold, like a frame frozen in a movie, and that when I sauntered back in, I’d press “Play,” and I would get my handsome prince.

It never dawned on me, in no way entered my mind, that I would lose some rare opportunity that I’d had with him. That this window which I’d barely been able to open, would suddenly, permanently close without my knowledge or say so. Never saw it coming.

I am very good at pretending. I can pretend with grieving widows, wary suspects, terrified accomplices, anyone with whom I need to pretend, in order to get where I needed to be. So many chess pieces to be removed from the board til I got to checkmate.

I was, it turns out, best able to pretend with myself, up until the point when I could no longer. Since I’d seen John take out that ring at the restaurant, since this woman Mary had become a reality in my mind, I’d been pretending: pretending that the main thing I cared about was the mustache, pretending to like Mary, pretending to plan the wedding, pretending to be delighted planning the wedding, pretending that this reality would all fade away, and that John was still mine, and could become even more mine with just a bit of courage on my part.

But the ratio of my ability to pretend to my growing sadness was shifting, my protective barrier wearing thin, the despair inflating like a suffocating bubble around me, cracking through the smile I kept trying to paste on.

And now, here we were, at the start of this ridiculous ritual of the bachelor’s night out before the big day, one last hurrah before getting tied down. _John, tied down, be still my heart_. Still the idea of drowning my sorrows in alcohol seemed like a something I could work with.

I attacked (and it felt like an attack) this ritual that would be the beginning of my end, with my characteristic verve and perfectionism. There was a certain level of intoxication that I believed it was my responsibility to insure, so that we could have the right spirit to endure the night, without becoming so overly saturated that either of us took ill or passed out. I decided we should visit bars on the streets where we’d found a corpse; quite meaningful, I reasoned.

The alcohol, at least at first, helped re-establish my ability to dissimulate remarkably. John, his usual affable self, was so much better at pub chit chat than me. I did my best to keep up my end, but he also seemed content to sit quietly with me, observing the scene around us with detached interest.

And then things began to slide a bit. Perhaps I’d somehow miscalculated the amount of alcohol I could hold, and then he was not particularly forthcoming about his output of urine at that fourth place. But no matter, the pleasant buzz I’d been trying to maintain started to deepen, commandeer more neurons than I’d planned on, affect my balance, my ability to maintain visual acuity, the quality of my speech, and, and…

my heart.

_Could you please change your mind, here, please? Can you not see this between us, that we are riveted? Do you not see that when you stand behind me like that, that I feel excited and safe at the same time? Do you not feel this pull between our bodies, how my hand itches to graze your chest, how my mouth drifts down towards yours, my skin aching for your touch, your lips. Please, please wake up and figure this out with me._

But instead, like most men, I channeled my passions into anger, and a brawl with another inebriated soul over my expertise in ash seemed to be as good a place as any to channel. But there he was—my angel intervened, and we made our way home.

The cab ride was excruciating. John alternated between closing his eyes and giggling, seemingly replaying events from the last couple hours. He tried to talk, but he was slurring too. I watched his lips move, losing track of his words, willing the distance between us to disappear. The world was spinning, and I realized that my state of drunkenness was in no way dissipating through being in the night air, nor as my sadness materialized. I decided the only sane thing was to play it safe, joking as best I could…

At home, the stairs overwhelmed us, at least at first. We’d only sat on the bottom stair to begin with, trying to gather our bearings, and reduce the breathless fits of giggles we’d been lapsing into. Then, seemingly exhausted, John laid back, his head resting on the third stair.

At first, I’d lay back with him, my heart pounding, then gathered my courage and turned my body so I was facing him. So close… _I stroked down the side of his face, his neck, dove there for a kiss, a suck and felt his energy shift toward me, his hand groping for my shoulder, pulling my mouth to his. oh my god…please._ My breath changed, becoming shallow and ragged, easily giving me away if not for John’s current mental state. I shifted over and faced the railing. We continued to tease each other, and then,

“Ah, Hudders….”

Mildly ashamed by how minimal our escapades had apparently been, we made our way up the stairs to continue the party.

And there we were, somehow, in our chairs, blessedly able to continue our dance, care of two fingers of scotch. John had somehow created this ridiculous game, involving figuring out who we were by staring at each other and asking questions, and though getting drunker by the minute, the irony was not lost on me.

My feelings of longing were intensifying, and I felt for the first time that night, real fear. He was so close, his beautiful body lounging back in a way I’d never seen, inviting me, beckoning like a siren. His eyes, teasing and kind, the combination that I’d realized had been rescuing me since the day we’d met, allowing me up to the surface of the human world, where I’d been drowning up til then.

 _My love…._.

There were times when he seemed to be almost flirting with me, though I had a strong suspicion of wishful thinking. My urge to raise myself out of that chair throw myself at his feet was overwhelming.

 _Will you please…? You think that woman knows how to make love to you? Oh really!? I will open you up, body and soul, and reach into the deepest place in you. I will make you shake like a leaf on a tree, then make you as hard as steel, and then I will pull an orgasm from your depths the likes of which you’ve never known. You will lose your breath and scream my name at the same time_ …

My eyes were a dead giveaway, I knew it. I tried to look sternly, then I melted into humor, then lust, then love, now grief— _all of it right here for you to see, my dear._

And then….

John leaned forward in his chair, ever so slightly, and my heart leapt. I could barely keep a coherent thought, but I somehow sensed his coming toward me. He continued to lean forward, still teasing, playing this stupid game. What?? What now?? Was he actually falling out of his chair?? Into my lap?

Time stopped. The moment seemed suspended in mid-air, the whole universe boiling down to just this space between us.

And then he did what he did.

He came toward me, stumbling. In the most innocent and minute of ways, he just reached out a hand, just a dusting of contact, a small touch, to my knee. Lingering there, near my body.

And that, I’m afraid, was that.

It did not really feel like me, actually. It felt like a force above and below me, some circuit that has been firing lightening between two poles all night, for years, and with that touch, with neither of us wielding any control, that circuit was completed, and the fire in me ignited.

I gripped his shoulders and fell to the floor with him, both of us on our knees within millimeters of each other. The alcohol made me deliciously aroused and deliciously brave all at once. His face full of fear that I blithely ignored, I pulled him roughly toward me and collapsed into a heart stopping kiss, groaning deeply from the back of my throat. I had no idea how he would respond, what manner of punishment I was about to receive, but I ignored it all, and kissed him like the starving man that I was.

He all but froze in my arms, neither shoving me away nor returning the embrace in which I’d captured him. His body felt better than i could have imagined, soft and strong..I was in heaven. And then, in the tiniest of ways, a moment that I will never forget, that made me soar…His mouth opened for me, softened, and reached back. My heart was racing.

I could not bear my uncertainty one more minute. I pulled back abruptly, both of us gasping for breath. “Don’t……..” he started, my heart screeching to a halt, anguish rising up. “…..stop,” he panted, “god, don’t stop.”


	2. Finally!

John:

Stag night! What a bizarre idea, One night when the groom ran amok, aided and abetted by his mates, to what? shag prostitutes? dance on tables with lampshades on his head? sew the last wild oats before supposedly settling down with his virginal wife? What did that say about the state of marriage in our culture? Commitment? ….

Yet Sherlock had insisted, even seemed to have done research on the thing somehow, and his devotion to his role of best man I found frankly quite touching. Traipsing around between noisy pubs may not have been the most ideal way I could imagine my “last night” with Sherlock, but I’d bite.

“Last night..” sounded strange to me, but still seemed somehow appropriate. For weeks, I’d been noticing urges to talk more honestly with him, about what, I wasn’t sure. To thank him, I guess. To tell him all the things I wanted to after he died, how important he was to me. To tell him how much and why I valued him. I may be playing “blogger” for him, but words were not necessarily my speciality. Sherlock could crank out words by the bushel, but they were rarely about relationships or emotion. So in this, we were quite the pair—two blokes, desperately committed to each other, falling away, rejoining, most things left unsaid.

So, yeah- stag night.

About ninety minutes in and my head was buzzing with confusion. Most of it pleasant enough, surely due to my careful and steady imbibing, but perhaps not all alcohol related, if I’m honest.

All night, and if I’m honest, on and off for a while, some amount of confusion had been buzzing around inside of me, because of Sherlock. Just because Sherlock was…..well, Sherlock. Only dimly aware of this, it was also true that at times, a certain pang of clarity cut through the confusion, seeming to light up something I was supposed to see, and then the light again doused abruptly by the confusion, before I could get much of a look.

Mostly, what kept crashing through my pleasant, buzzy confusion this night, was how good my detective looked. The drunker I got, the more he captured my attention, which I regarded from a corner of my mind with some amusement. _Look at you, Watson, watching this man, his face, his chest, his arms. Imagining what he’d feel like if you wrapped yourself._ … And then, the meandering fantasy would evaporate, almost as if I’d shaken myself, and I was back on earth, and about to get married. To a woman. To Mary.

Overall, I felt well in control of this fantasizing throughout the night, he and I teasing each other, laughing—up til the point when for some unknown reason he seemed about to come to blows with some git, about what? ash? I got us out of there, and we headed home.

And then, there we are, facing each other in our chairs, in this room, in our old life, his gaze holding mine. God, was he always this beautiful? No, the alcohol had improved something that in no way required improving. His eyes, magnificent under any conditions, now displayed a kind of openness, a kind of emotional honesty that I found utterly captivating.

Mind you, I was not particularly aware of this. This vague sense, this attraction, flitting in and out of my consciousness, flapping out of my vision like a bird that I knew was there, but could not quite see.

How could you describe this? What I was feeling? Certainly a little lightheaded, giddy even. Prone to laughing.

But something else was happening too. I felt this connection, this pull, this force. I felt drawn in by him, toward him, by measures. I reached my foot out to his chair, a move that I would have absolutely considered flirting in any other circumstance, but here, with him….? Was I flirting?

I leaned toward him, closer, closer still. I somehow felt something moving me, moving me, almost against my will, and yet somehow feeling completely in synch with what was happening. Most of mind luxuriating in the bleary eyed irresponsibility of inebriation, but that one corner of my mind, that little bastard, pushing me between my shoulder blades, off my chair, dropping in front of him. _There, John, right there._

To steady myself, I put my hand on his knee and smiled.

I had no idea what I was doing there.

I knew exactly what I was doing there.

The world seemed to stop. The smile left my face. It was like ….

Sherlock gripped my shoulders in a way that thrilled and terrified me. He knelt too, his eyes drilling into me, as he brought his face closer to mine. Beautiful. Overpowering. I couldn’t breathe but this thought stalked forth: _Kiss me, goddamit._

And he did.

All the alcohol reduced my ability to form thought just about down to zero, leaving my lizard brain free to take the wheel. All that was left for me was sensation. I wanted to wrap my arms around him as if my life depended on it, but momentarily, I froze. What a feeling, to kiss him. I could taste all the alcohol and the longing and the passion in his lips, his tongue, making me dizzier and breathless. He moaned while his mouth opened mine, and I thought I’d dissolve into him just by that alone.

He abruptly pulled away, throwing me into confusion. _What the hell?!_ “Don’t…” I ground out; his face fell. “Stop!” I finished. “God, don’t stop!” and I dove toward him.. I couldn’t get close enough to him. I tried to wrap every ounce of my energy around him, two parts of puzzle slotting together after a life time apart. _Jesus, you feel so bloody good, perfect,_ I wanted to shout, but I couldn’t bear to let his mouth go.

I couldn’t help my hands traveling all over his body. _Finally! Where they needed to be!_ They were operating on pure instinct from this wanting part of my body, my brain, my soul. Have got to get closer…. I pulled his shirt out of his trousers and let my fingertips touch his skin, at first trying to maintain some gentleness, but quickly resorting to the urgency I felt coursing through me, pressing him to me. I put one hand between us, grazed his waist, and then gently cupped his erection.

“God yes, yes, please,” he panted into my neck, licking and kissing, enough to drive me mad.

“Jesus, I want you so much,” I groaned into his ear, and his mouth found mine again.

I was getting harder by the second, surprised and relieved that the alcohol had not impaired erectile functioning. He pressed against me, and I could feel him, hard as a rock.

In a way I will never be able to recount, we were both somehow on the floor, laid out next to our chairs, him on top of me. My head was swimming. “You feel so good…” I moaned as he returned his lips to my neck, his mouth soft and wet, groaning my name. Feeling him stretched against me like that, vulnerable, virile, wanting, made me so aroused, and I felt my hips buck up involuntarily as he began to thrust against me. I swiped one hand down his arse, gently stroking the cleft as well as I could through his trousers.

He put both forearms to each side of my head and he raised his beautiful face above mine. “I’m going to come,” he panted. “You’re going to make me come just with what you’re doing, and I want you to see it.”

I was desperate to see it. “You’re so gorgeous,” I whispered. “Come for me and I’ll come with you.” His face almost looked pained as the orgasm began, his head thrown back. It felt like a volcano rumbling in my arms, his body finding the exact friction it needed. No thoughts, no words, just nature putting her hand on his hips, guiding him. Holding on to this force, knowing I’d created it, was overwhelming and the delicious pressure that signaled to my impending climax flared. “Oh god, Oh god.. John….” he cried out, and I was over the top seconds later.

I lay with him on top of me, struggling for breath, and feeling such a kind of joy, contentment, satisfaction. _Just so_ , I thought, as I reveled in the pleasure of feeling like something had clicked.

Apparently able to regain use of his body, Sherlock again rose slightly over me, his eyes beautiful, but sill hazed by the evenings imbibing. He kissed me gently on my eyes, nose, lips, and i let our a small sigh. He cocked his head slightly, and looked at me so…lovingly? and then with sadness in his face. I thought I could see a tear.

“Hey,” I whispered. “That was fantastic, so intense, god, so intense,” the slur almost completely gone from my words, though I still felt an extra layer of giddy, no doubt alcohol induced.

“Yeah,” he said softly. And that was about the last thing I remembered before deep sleep claimed me.


	3. Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst! Redemption!

Sherlock: 5 a.m.

I awoke with a start, at once completely aware of what had happened, where I was and what was about to be. I wasted no time on illusion. Or tried not to.

My head was pounding a bit, but I otherwise seemed to have escaped a hangover. I shifted slightly to observe my beautiful doctor to my right, laying on his side, his hand resting lightly on my chest, breathing deeply, his mouth pulled into an adorable pout. He seemed entirely unconscious.

I felt such longing. I gritted my teeth as a brake pedal to the urge in my body, my hands, my mouth, to reach for him, engulf him in my warmth, luxuriate in his. Stroke his soft hair, his skin.

I felt certain of my understanding of our current predicament.

Sherlock and John: drunken groping, almost no words exchanged, barely a thought registered, easily erased the morning after.

John: soldier, in every sense, brave, wise, doing the right thing, proceeding as any straight man might, to the altar, with his bride.

Sherlock: best man, devoted friend, nodding, smiling, playing violin, blessing their marriage, left on his own.

 _Yep._ That’s the order of the day. Tears will not help here. Get up and get ready.

I decided to play a game with myself as I completed my ablutions in silence. If John woke up before I left, I had a chance to…what? It was too ridiculous to think about. Well, at least to express my feelings to him.

And if he wasn’t awake, well, there was my answer. Carry on with the original plan. Stiff upper lip. All that.

I emerged from the loo, with my doctor still deeply asleep. Not looking good. I strode bravely to the armoire, and drew forth the suit, the sartorial backdrop to my demise. I despised the thing. Nonetheless, I proceeded and dressed in all too short of time.

John…immobile, peaceful, beautiful.

I sighed. It took everything in me to not lay back down with him, clasp him to me, caress him into alertness, arousal, orgasm. Desperate for that, yes.

But, no. I knew better than to hope. I walked softly to the sitting room, picked up my violin (old friend), and left the flat.

  
John: 9:45 a.m.

 _In bed…whose bed?_ Consciousness and recollection swam toward me, along with the profound disappointment of awaking to the apparent state my body was in. _How’d I get in bed? Sherlock…his bed…Sherlock…oh god…what’d we do??_ I rolled my head to the side and scanned the room with one eye. The throbbing in my head intensified and no flatmate. I called as loudly as my invalided state would allow. “Sherlock! Where the bloody hell are you??” Silence.

 _Wait, was it a dream?? Concentrate. Where’s Sherlock? Those pubs, that game we played, we kissed,_ my breath started hitching in my throat, becoming faster and shallower.

 _I know this; this is about to be a panic attack. Shit. Shit. Diaphragm breathing. Don’t panic. You’re not going to die_. I rolled on my side and tried to focus down to just the next inhale, but my thoughts were racing now. _Shit. Sherlock. Where is he? We had sex. Kind of. Does that count? What the fuck? I’m getting married. Fuck, Watson, fuck, fuck, man. How can I get married? Married. Mary. Fuck._ “Sherlock!” I shouted again, a bit louder.

This line of thought wasn’t helping at all. My breathing got faster, my heart was pounding like a jackhammer, I was dizzy and coming closer and closer to throwing up. I gamely kept focusing on the breathing, remembering the PTSD specialist saying that the breathing will work no matter what you’re thinking, or you’ll faint, and then your breathing will go back to normal on its own. _Great. So reassuring_. I had a feeling fainting might be a high point for today.

I counted inhales and exhales. _One one…Two two…Three..three._ That seemed to help. Except for the extreme fucking mountain of problems I’d caused myself and everyone I loved, things were going much better. _Shit. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?_

Find the mobile.

Send text.

_Where the bloody hell are you?? -JW_

_Oh god. I have to go get married. Mary is probably in the dress by now. Bollux! What time is it?_ Heart rate increasing. _One one…Two…two. Okay. okay. I’ll calm down. I’ll get dressed. I’ll go get married. Right? What the hell else can I do?_ My head was pounding, the nausea was not going anywhere, and I started to cry. I rolled into a fetal position, searching for inspiration. _Jesus, where was that man?_

My mind continued to race, remembering more of last night, trying to sit up, laying back down, at once racing a hundred kilometers an hour and completely immobilized. _Think_ I shouted to myself. _You’ve faced bigger messes. You’ve been to war. You chase criminals. People try to kill you. Think, think. Oh God…oh God…what am I going to do? what am I going to do?_

 _If only he was here,_ I thought. _I could at least hold him, feel him around me, feel his mouth…._

And then…

Without preamble or warning, I sat bolt upright, as if a string from the heavens attached to the top of my head was suddenly yanked up, and my shaking body with it.

 _Yep. There it is,_ I realized, cold, clear, slicing through all the turmoil and the shallow breathing. _That is the thing._

I did not remember exactly what happened last night. I did not know when my feelings for Sherlock had started, and I had no idea where they were going. I had no idea how I was going to unwind the knot I tied us all up in, but I knew this: if he were here right now, there was no force on the earth that would have stopped me from making love to him. Tenderly, passionately, desperately, violently, any and all of that, would be between us, right now, and I could imagine nothing, not police pounding up the stairs, not Mrs Hudson crying in the sitting room, not my fiancee waiting in the hallway, nothing, nothing would be stopping me from that.

I knew this like I knew my name.

And that was that.

The phone beeped and I grabbed it like my life depended on it.

_Oh, hi..-SH_

_Oh, bloody hi!!? What the fuck is going on?? Where are you? -JW_

Fuck this texting, I thought.

_Pick up.-JW_

  
Sherlock:

I’d wandered through St. James Park and Trafalgar Square as long as possible. Occasionally I’d sit and stare a bit, or cry, but mostly I walked about, trying to think reassuring thoughts or distract myself by deducing passersby. _Is this what death row is like?_ I thought, knowing that was a bit dramatic, even for me. Imagining Mycroft rolling his eyes, I tried to give myself a mental shake and buck up. But I knew a part of me was dying, so my brusque pep talks weren’t sinking in. When I could no longer avoid it, I thought it best to make my way to the church and wait for John there. If I didn’t hear from him within the hour, I’d call to make sure he was awake.

Once in the cab, I checked my phone. John had texted and my tears started again, anticipating the pain of our conversation. I decided to start by playing it cool

_Oh, hi..-SH_

_Oh, bloody hi!!? What the fuck is going on?? Where are you? -JW_

_Pick up—JW_

The phone rang. I started:

“So, how’s it going?” I had a little speech planned about last night, but I thought I’d just ignore it for as long as I could.

“How’s it going?!” John practically screeched. “Why are you not here? How could you have left me this morning?”

My heart ached. _My darling, I want nothing more than to be in your arms_ …But I said this instead: “Well, I figured you’d be wanting to put last night behind us…”

John sounded angry, shocked, his breathing loud and fast in my ear. “What?! What are you saying? Where the hell are you?”

I cleared my throat. I would plunge forward. “ I…I’m in a cab; I’m on my way to the church…”

“The church…shit. Right, the church… Okay, good thinking.” John said.

At that, I knew all was lost. I knew of course this is what would happen, that John would count on me to do the right thing, forget about our night of passion, reboot the program that got interrupted. I held the phone away from my mouth and sobbed quietly. “Right,” I continued. “I figured you’d want to get on with…”

He interrupted me abruptly. “Okay, I’m going to need your help with this. I’m going to need you to be there all day, and explain it to everyone. That we’re not getting married after all. Do you understand??”

I gulped oxygen. I was stunned. I misheard. Wishful thinking. _Holmes! Focus!_

My breath hitching I asked, “John….what are you saying? You’re scaring me…”

“Scaring you? “ John exclaimed. “Do you not understand? Do you not feel this between us?”

Once again, I felt like the world stopped. I was overwhelmed, overjoyed. _John, I’m mad for you. You’re all I think about. Of course I feel this._ I wanted to scream, to stop the cab and run around in traffic, jumping up and down on cars in celebration. My heart was pounding and I felt faint.

But then, doubt set in. What a responsibility. What if John was just confused, or sick, or had cold feet? I pushed on, holding my breath as if I were defusing a bomb. “But John, you’ve planned a whole wedding…you love Mary…I can’t…”

“Listen,” he cut in, sounding desperate. “I don’t know what’s happening to me…I don’t really know who I’ve been or where I’m going. But I know this: what we had last night, I have GOT to have it again, do you understand? I’ve GOT to…..SOON…..A LOT.......So how can I get married? What am i going to do? Stand next to Mary in a church and then drag you into a closet somewhere? And then come to Baker Street tomorrow morning? Don’t you see?” he pleaded with me.

Well, that was it.

I gave in.

The wall I’d been constructing on and off for years between us, between myself and the rest of the world, my artfully arranged facade, it all came down, and I joined my brave soldier in his apparent mission: honesty.

“I feel everything you are saying, and I can’t stand the thought of not making love to you again,” I said with such emotion in my voice. _There, that was out. Not so bad._ “I’ve been feeling and tasting your body for years now, in my mind, imagining it….

“Jesus, Sherlock..” John panted

…And now that I’ve actually felt it and tasted I think I’d die if I have to go on without it. I felt like I was dying, and now I’m alive again.  
  
“Sherlock…” John’s breathing was heavy.

Emboldened by my new openness, I barreled ahead. “I’m tasting you right now. My lips are brushing yours, trailing down your jaw, your neck, finding everywhere that makes you moan, licking, sucking, god, you sound wonderful, feel wonderful, under my hands, my mouth....”

“Jesus,” John ground out. “Will you stop?! There’s nothing I’d rather do than have phone sex with you right now, but I’ve got this marriage thing to see to.”

Phone sex? Ah, I hadn’t considered that angle. “Right. Good. Okay…Well, I’m almost at the church.”

“Okay….what what will you say to everyone?”

“John,” I said patiently, “worry not. You know how diplomatic I can be.”

“Omigod. Right. Listen, whatever you do, you must keep it brief. Don’t say anything outlandish. Make it sound like I was some type of scoundrel, but nothing too terrible, and that Mary thought better of it. Okay? Do you have that?”

I must admit, my eyes had probably glazed over a bit, I was so entranced by his lovely voice, in my ear, so close. I still felt somewhat in shock over the whole business. “Yes, John, right..” I figure I’d better add in.

“God, I wish I was with you.. I need to be touching you so badly right now.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “I can’t wait,” I said huskily, trying not to let the sob rising in my throat reveal itself over the airwaves.

“I’m going to Mary’s,” John said, his voice sounding tearful as well. “I’ll keep you posted.”


	4. The Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does a bang up job

Still Sherlock:

I could hardly believe what was happening. I gathered myself for a moment after I got out of the cab, replaying the conversation we’d just had over in my mind. Like an obsessive compulsive checking the locks, I couldn’t quite reassure myself it had actually happened. Was this more wishful thinking? Had I projected something into the moment that actually wasn’t there? In the end, I grew in certainty, and joy and relief flooded me. A reprieve. The wagon drives past the gallows. The doctor apologizes for his mis-reading of the scan. Bullet dodged.

I squared my shoulders, straightened my coat, and strode into the entrance of the church.

What a scene before me. Mary’s friends and ours milled about, chatting. A couple of women tied festive flowers and bows on the sides of the pews. Everyone was dressed in lovely outfits, pastels, befitting the season. Some of the women wore hats, including Mrs. Hudson. Faces glowing as they leaned toward each other, laughing, imagining the beautiful event they were about to witness.

 _Not_ …! my mind supplied. Oh well, not the first time I’d snatched tragedy from the jaws of delight, and probably not the last. I felt well prepared for my role as bearer of bad news, and spied the reverend among the crowd.

“Reverend…” I walked forward. “A word, please…”

“Yes?” he said pleasantly. He extended his hand. “Reverend James Jones. And who might you be?”

“The best man…” I smiled back, and gently turned him aside to begin my tale.

“….so you see…” I concluded calmly. It then registered that the man looked positively ashen, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape.

“I can’t believe this! This is highly irregular…are you sure? I can’t just let you disperse a room full of people based on this. I have to speak to the bride or groom,” he said, seemingly pleased that he’d thought of something, anything, to say.

I huffed a bit irritatedly. “Can be arranged,” I stated. A text to John.

_Can you talk? Reverend needs confirmation from you -SH_

_Oh God…okay. I’m almost to Mary’s -JW_

I rang John, handed the phone over, and a few seconds later, we were back in business.

Awaiting no further instruction, I held up my hand and drew the attention of those gathered.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” they turned as one, with eyes expectant, still smiling. I cleared my throat. Hmm, a bit harder than I’d imagined, re-routing John’s entire life in public.

“Well,” I continued, “I have bad news. There’s been a bit of a…problem. You see, in the last 24 hours, some, ah, _truths_ about John’s life, our bride groom to be, have been…revealed.” An unbidden image of he and I writhing on the floor flooded my brain, taking my breath. I shook my head vigorously and continued.

“John, you see..has a past. Well,” I stammered, “I guess we all have a past. But John’s past involves a bit of a double life..yes..a double life. And his other life is…uh..well quite different from the life of which we are all aware. Yes, John, unassuming, pleasant John, who we all know and love..well he’s actually, or he actually was a….what shall I say? uh well,” a thought struck. “Yes, he was a trained assassin.” There was a collective gasp, bewilderment, shock, disbelief.

“So..” I sallied forth. “Then, obviously, Mary, having learned this and more sordid details to be sure, very understandably began to have second thoughts. Yes, well, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t we all? Its not quite clear whether or not John has put assassinating behind him, so, well, that’s a tough start to a marriage, wouldn’t you agree? Yes, I think we’d all agree.”

“So, I’m afraid, um, no wedding today, folks. Perhaps you could all go out together somewhere as you are all dressed up.” There, I thought. I felt rather pleased. I thought that was tied up pretty well with a bow. But then I double checked. The reverend: still ashen, looking worse actually. The wedding goers: equally displeased, gasping, tearful, shaking their heads, talking amongst themselves. Ah, well.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Lestrade approaching, their eyes wide and unbelieving. I’d expected as much. Lestrade started.

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell…..?”

“Quiet!” I barked at them and led them to a corner of the sanctuary furthest from the others.

Lestrade, again: “What the bloody hell is going on?” he spat out, losing patience.

“Alright, alright,” I huffed out. “John is not a trained assassin.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Lestrade continued. “So…”

I swallowed hard. I hadn’t actually expected to have to be honest with others that day. I looked sheepishly at the floor, and started in.

“So… well…..so John and I….” My mouth went dry and I had no idea how to complete that sentence. _are madly in love? are absurdly confused? rutted like teenagers?_

Mrs. Hudson, bless her, helped out. She gasped and grinned, the light of understanding dawning in her eyes. The corner of my mouth upturned slightly, and I stared at her, blushing. “Oh Sherlock!” she exclaimed, practically doing a little dance.

“What…?’ Molly whispered.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes at both of them and winked. “Him and John….you know..”

Molly gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She flew toward me and embraced me. “I feel like saying congratulations!”

Only Lestrade seemed to reflect the true state we were in. He rolled his eyes and groaned. “Sherlock, what’s that thing John is always saying to you? ‘Timing…’ right, Sherlock? Timing”

“Yes, I know,” I hissed irritatedly, glowering at him. But then even he began to smile. “About bloody time, I guess.”

Molly and Mrs. Hudson were giggling like school girls.

“Silence, the three of you. You’ll ruin the experience I’m so desperately trying to orchestrate here. Leave at once,” I ordered. They returned to their faces of distress and did as I asked.

As other people entered, they were quickly informed of the turn of events. Some of them approached me directly, and I did my best to review the “facts” of the case for all of them, adding in the appropriate grave nod and sympathetic tone as needed. In truth, I was glad to be over with this, and couldn’t wait to get back to Baker Street to await my reunion with John, but I’d agreed to stay and see to all of these idiots, and stay I would.

After about an hour or so of this, the crowd seemed to thin. Some had volunteered to text others, the few remaining seemed to almost enjoy their vigil, as if having endured some act of God together. So, feeling my duty dispensed with, I bid my farewell and headed home.


	5. At Mary's

John:

Despite the momentary flood of arousal during my call with Sherlock, my hangover seemed to have returned full force, accompanied by perhaps a migraine headache and a panic attack. I’d called Mary from the cab, the most dreadful phone call I’d ever made.

“Look, there’s a problem. I’ve caused a huge problem, and I..I can’t…I can’t let you marry me today..”

“John..” Mary sounded completely reasonable, calming, soothing. “Dear, you’re just nervous. Don’t be silly. Whatever it is..we can get it all sorted. Not to worry..” she almost giggled.

“You do not understand..” I said sternly, the weight of my words settling on me like concrete. I was gulping breath; I felt like I was drowning. “I’m not who you think I am….I’m not who I think I am.. I’m on my way over.”

“You’re going to see me before the wedding? Oh no-that’s not good. I’m just about to put the dress on…”

“No, no!” I shouted. “Please no dress. Please, please don’t put the dress on.” My breathing coming fast and hard, my chest tightening, my head pounding. “I’ll be there soon,” I gasped out, and hung up.

She opened the door to me, in the dress (! damn!) and I stumbled in. “You look terrible..” she said. I knew her though. She tried to show calming, knowing smiles, but there was panic in her eyes.

“Listen..” I was crying, my chest heaving. “Listen…” I huffed out, but that was all I could do. I ran to bathroom, slammed the door behind me, and vomited. _Great, going great so far._

Mary at the door. “John,” she sounded worried. “John..” a bit louder. _Maybe I could fake a heart attack,_ I thought. _Surely, she can’t expect me to get married from an ambulance._ I shook my head. Too smart. She’d never buy it. I slowly rose from my place near the toilet, and opened the door.

I tried to smile, and the tears began again.

“Listen, I love you. I do. You have changed my life. “ Breathe, breathe. I held her gaze. “You saved my life. But…”

Tears came to her eyes. “But I, uh, I had sex with Sherlock last night…”

“Wha….?” she stared, her lovely mouth open. “The best man?! That’s not how its supposed to work, John…” she said, rather foolishly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that…” I continued. “You know…” I stuttered. “You know how you’re always teasing me..about…him. About how it is between him and me. You and the whole world intimating… things.” _Jesus…where was I going with this? Why hadn’t I planned this better? I was saying things I hadn’t even thought yet…_

A devastated look in her eyes. “But you’re not….gay,” she whispered, incredulous, shaking her head. “I know you’re not…we have sex all the time, all the time…” she added, with emphasis.

That was generous of her. Truth be told, we hadn’t had all that much sex lately. Not the point.

“Mary…” I started again.

“How can you do this to me?” she looked so vulnerable, like a little girl, and I was responsible for killing her dog. If only the earth really did swallow people. I deserved it. I hated myself.

“You don’t have to do this, you know..” her voice regaining clarity and strength. “I know you love me. You don’t have to make this choice…”

Something dawned on me. I spoke slowly, tears coming back to my eyes. “This…does…not…feel….like a choice,” I ground out. She flinched. “A key does not…wake up in the morning and ask…’which lock shall I fit today?” I said, my face crumbling into a sob.

She sobbed too, then anger came into her eyes. “I hate you…” she spat out, her voice rising.

I looked down in shame. “You should. So do I,” I said simply.

Her outrage continued, as I deserved it to. At one point, she threw me out of the house. I pounded down the sidewalk, only to sit myself on the curb, attempting to regain control of my breathing and delay the next round of vomiting. Never had I been so affected by emotional anguish, and I’d seen my share. I don’t think I’d ever felt so responsible for causing pain to another, and with this physical reaction as the punishment, I’d try to avoid it in the future.

She texted me, and I stumbled back to the house.

Thank god she’d changed out of the dress. Her distress and mine raged up and down, into every color of emotional pain there was, for what seemed like hours. I did throw up (again) but had the presence of mind to actually brush my teeth after (my toothbrush staring at me from her vanity, chastising me for my abandonment). Still it was the first normal human thing I’d done all day, and it calmed me strangely. I think I’d never felt more exhausted.

But. Also….what? what else was I feeling? I stared at myself in her mirror, looking like death, but feeling what?

Free?

Clear?

Determined? There, way in the back, if the guilt settled down to a low roar, there was this other sense of what this was.

That this was right.

Still, that was the faintest part of the experience. Mostly, I knew this was terrible, what I was doing, cowardly to not have figured this out sooner, spared her this “day of the wedding” debacle. When it was all said and done, I knew it was my own fear and weakness that had brought us to this place, raking her over these coals. And the only thing that could save me, and her, and heal this ugly wound I’d slashed into her, was time.


	6. Back at the Ranch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Angst!

Sherlock:

I’d underestimated the special kind of torture waiting at 221B would become.

I left the church feeling free and excited and so desperately in love, anticipating seeing John soon and being swept away in days of passion and ecstasy. I settled in back home, taking off the hated “best man costume," and relaxing in my usual pajamas and dressing gown. Easiest to remove, I figured. I settled back on the couch and let my mind wander. John’s hands, his mouth, his voice…oh god yes…the delicious sound track as I pictured my body aching, arching, finding the perfect friction, _oh god john_ , my heart pounding, I practically shouted just in my day dreams.

But then…

time clicked by, and I suddenly realized what was actually happening. John wasn’t out at the surgery, or buying milk, or grabbing a pint somewhere. Noooo, I realized with growing distress. He was out with his fiancee, his beautiful, womanly, vulnerable fiancee, with whom he’d bonded so deeply as to propose marriage. Attempting to negotiate the terms of their separation.

Oh my god! I bolted up from the sofa. Why had I assumed we were free and clear?

_What had I been thinking??_! Anything, anything could be happening. He could be giving in, changing his mind, overwhelmed with guilt, smacking himself on the forehead… _”shit, I’m not gay! silly me…”_ My worry turned to panic, grief.

_Sherlock, mate, I…I’m sorry here. Made a bit of a mistake, you see. Do-over, yes? Can we?_ I played the scene over and over in my head.

An hour passed. Pacing back and forth, I grabbed the phone. Nothing. Not a beep, not a sound from the thing. No word from John. I turned it off and on. Re-booting was an essential function for computers, I reminded myself. Surely when the damn thing woke back up, it would find a text from John and I could start breathing again.

The sound of phone coming to life. Pause. Pause.

Nothing, no text, no message from John.

I continued to pace. Should I go over there? What if John was in trouble? What if Mary turned out to be the assassin, and John was tied up somewhere? _Ridiculous!_ I imagined the scene anyway, that being preferable to the break up I’d been imagining earlier.

What if they were having sex? What if she asked him for “one more time,” to rescue her flagging self-esteem? What if he gave in and was having second thoughts. It was agony. I looked out the window, up and down the street. And checked the phone. Nothing.

Minutes ticked by, another hour. I felt sick. My skin was clammy and I was having trouble breathing. _Damn! Where the hell was he?_ How could he do this to me? How could he go off and have sex with his ex-wife and leave me alone with this nightmare?? I hate John!

More pacing. Alcohol! There was an idea. Would that take the edge off? I delayed. The hangover I’d been flirting with all day had just been put to rest in the last hour. Still, if I was about to face losing John, another hangover would be least of my worries.

I pictured waking up tomorrow morning, alone, engulfed again in my “new” life, John and Mary patching things up, slowly. John feeling renewed in his commitment to her. What had I been thinking? I pounded my fists against my head. _Idiot!_ How had I not realized the precariousness of this situation? The risk…the waterfall of panic and grief that I was stepping gingerly across, stone by slippery stone, completely uncertain if I would reach the other side, or be swept to my death down the rampaging waters.

More minutes ticking. I checked the phone again, and threw it onto the sofa. _Damn_.

A text alert sounded. My breath stopped. I dove for it like it was a grenade I had to throw out the window, and clicked it open.

_On my way home —JW_

Home! I started to breathe, but my heart pounded and my hands shook.

_Are you still mine? —SH_

No use beating around the bush.

…

…

I waited what felt like an eternity. Was he thinking? Re-writing? Letting me down gently?? _Damn, damn, damn._

_Always —JW_

I let out a sob of relief. I felt the blood return to my limbs, and the lightheadedness eased.

The best thing I’d ever read. _I love you madly,_ I wanted to write. But I thought better of it. I was dedicated to honesty with John from now on, but it had been an overwhelming day, and I figured I’d better gauge his state of mind before this kind of admission.

_Can’t wait to see you —SH._ I left it at that.

I returned to my place on the sofa, sprawled out, my head leaning against the back. Relief again coursed through my body, and I laughed through the tears I was still shedding. God, I couldn’t wait to hold him. I breathed, trying to calm myself. I wasn’t even sure John would want to have sex, so getting myself all worked up was not necessarily advisable. My body wasn’t really cooperating with this sound advice. I felt my cock harden just at the thought of being with him soon.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. I somehow drifted into a sleep like state, unaware of the exhaustion that had been building up. I startled awake, hearing John bang the door open. Without looking my way, he locked the door behind him and strode purposefully toward my room.

He pointed ahead of him. “Bed!” he ordered.

You did not have to ask me twice. I rose without hesitation and, not able to wait any longer, disrobed as I walked. The dressing gown fell back off of me, pooling on the floor. I undid the tie on the pajama trousers and they slipped down as I moved forward. I opened the door of the room and stepped out of them, fully naked before my lover.

Hmmm. I was a bit puzzled. John did not look ready to make the passionate love I’d been hoping for. Indeed, he looked like he was almost already asleep, his face planted roughly into the pillow, his coat still on, his arse slightly up in the air, like a toddler who’d barely made it to the crib. I paused, uncertain. He saw me out of the corner of this eye, and he shot up.


	7. Home

John:

I saw him come in, and it took a few milliseconds to register. Sherlock, this gorgeous genius, who I’d been lusting after for how long? Here he was in front of me. Naked. My breath hitched in my throat, and for the second time today, in that bed, a string attached between my head and the sky yanked, and I sat bolt upright, shaking. The sheer exhaustion overtaking my consciousness a moment ago was now shoved brutally aside by the bolt of pleasure surging in my groin. _Hang in there, Watson. One more round, and then you can collapse. Well worth the wait._

He looked uncertain. He reached behind him, toward the door. “Should I….?” he started.

“No!” I practically shouted, extending my hands as if I could stop him. “God no!” I froze. “I knew you’d be beautiful..” I began. “But this is…uh, beyond what I was imagining.”

The corner of his mouth turned up slightly, and his chest started to heave, like he was preparing to devour me. I took him in, inch by inch, and he let me, seemingly without self-consciousness. His ethereal eyes on me, I lowered my gaze, his mouth-watering torso, his long, straight cock, already half erect, tantalizing my own. Long, muscular legs, those elegant feet. He took a step toward me, and not breaking with my gaze, he began to turn, showing me, asking me to drink him in. He faced away from me, his arms extended down to his sides, his perfect, plush arse and strong back before me. I remembered the last time I’d seen this view of him, so momentarily, in Buckingham Palace no less. I’d played that scene in my mind any number of times after I’d been part of it, (and if I’m honest, it usually led to wanking) and now, here he was, languidly offering me this breathtaking view. He completed turning and drew my gaze again. I am staring, wide eyed, mouth open, sinking back on my heels. Being on my knees seems appropriate to the worship I’m feeling.

“I’m all yours…” he said, a wistful look in his eye, but starting to smile again.

I presume desire was written all over my face, and my hands itched to touch him, stroking, caressing, what was “mine.” My breath became ragged.

“Come toward me,” he said.

I walked on my knees across the bed, faster than I would have bet money I could. I reached for him as he took the final steps toward me. I couldn’t wait to feel him.

When we both reached the edge of the bed we froze for a moment. His face looked almost pained, his breathing shallow. “John” he said with intensity, and the look in his eyes melted into desire. He grabbed my face roughly and brought his lips toward mine. My head was swimming, but I stepped off the bed and reached my arms around him, one hand on his shoulder, one hand wound in his hair. He moved both hands to my back and pulled me flush with him, groaning when we made that more intimate contact. His body felt so sweet, so delicious, so perfect in my arms, and I moaned as I got harder.

God, how did this feel so good? I marveled. His mouth.. what can I say about his mouth?

It felt as good as it looked?

It opened me up and unpacked me, before I knew it?

I was 15 years old again?

It was home?

I moved my hands to his face and tried to get my kiss to talk for me, to tell him how desperate I was for him, how precious he was, how much he meant to me.

He drew back from me, panting and pulled my head into his shoulder. “You’re all I want…” he said breathlessly, passionately kissing my neck, my jaw, the side of my face. He started to take off my coat. “Clothes. Off ” he ground out, seemingly offended by the fabric between us.

I did my best with coat and the shirt, but I was having trouble with coordination. Every time he kissed me, my neck, my shoulders, he groaned as if he’d not eaten in days and I was his only food. All this delicious outpouring from him went straight to my cock, (and actually, my heart,) and I felt such an urgency to devour him as he was doing to me. I felt dizzy, my breath shallow—I think I figured out swooning, not really believing before now that there was such a thing.

He got impatient and began working the button and zip on the trousers, still kissing me the entire time. He reached his hand between both layers of trousers and pants, and pushed them down over my arse, then reached to the front and gently wound them away from my cock. They fell to the floor and I finally stepped out of them.

What a feeling to be against him like that, skin to skin. I wrapped my hands around his back and moaned his name. He started kissing my mouth again, deeply, one of his hands around the back of my head, the other around my arse. He started to gently swipe circles, first on both cheeks, and down the center, in the cleft between them. “Fuck…feels so good…”I moaned. _“_ So sexy..so hot… _”_ I breathed in his ear.

I moved my hands lightly up and down his back, to his sides and then skimmed one hand between our bodies to his waist. “John, John, God,…” he ground out, practically shouting, pulling my hips to his and started to grind against me. Clearly, a sensitive spot, I thought, reveling in his cries of pleasure. His moans were addictive to me, and I couldn’t wait to hear more. All night. All week. God, it was so perfect.

I suddenly remembered the feeling of grinding into him last night, actually having forgotten that this was the _second_ time I’d had him like this. 

Then, it hit me, though.  I realized its one thing to flail around with someone in a darkened room, your bodies and brains soaked in enough alcohol that a match should not be lit in your presence, two lost boys, crashing into each other, with no thought of past or future, giving into the false freedom of your frontal lobe being blessedly off line. That’s one thing.

Its another thing entirely to be completely awake to what’s happening, clear eyed, grounded in your body, even while its being dissolved by arousal. To be entirely on line, mind, body, soul, and to reach out desperately for another, wind yourself around him, a kind of certainty nodding in the back of your head: _yes. this. yes_. This is where I found myself. Not in some misty haze of “ _what? what’s happening? huh?”_ But the precisely articulated offer between two competent, terrified adults, laying their hearts and bodies on the line.

_What’ll it be, mate? In or out?_

I dove in. Kissing his neck, his chest, pulling him to me …

“Jesus, John,” he gasped, a slight smile, “lay down with me before I faint….”

The bed hit my legs and I fell back, inching back onto the blankets, holding his gaze. The slight break in the action required by maneuvering helped me get my bearings a bit more, slightly reduced this overwhelming crescendo I’d felt myself heading toward. He was facing me now, both on our sides, his breathing heavy, his brow furrowed as he looked into my eyes, slowly stroking the side of my face. He stroked down further on my neck, my shoulder, just lightly dusting his fingertips, cataloguing my every inch. He started to caress my chest, gently circling around the left nipple. This turned out to be incredibly arousing, a bit surprising, not something I’d been on the receiving end of too often, well, frankly because I was always focusing on her nipples, _thank you very much_. “God…Sherlock…god…” I moaned, writhing next to him.

“Neve stop making those sounds…” he whispered, and pulled me closer, burying his face in my neck. He continued to kiss where his hands had just been, lowering his head to the same nipple, swirling his tongue around it, over it. It hardened and he began flicking his tongue. I was out of my mind.

I started thrusting my hips toward him, and he groaned, _“_ John, John…” He put one hand on my hip and began undulating with me. _“_ God….he cried out. “You feel,..Jesus…perfect..” I had the feeling that any amount of friction was going to push me over the edge. I felt a bit stunned. He hadn’t really even touched my cock yet, right? I hadn’t missed that, had I? No I don’t think I’d miss that. How was I so close to coming with just what’s going on here?

And then there he was, reaching for me, sliding his had over my hip, my thigh, and there, _ah, ah, fuck, right there,_ my throbbing prick. He slid his thumb over the slit, and twirled it lightly, spreading the copious pre-cum over the head, down the shaft. I was in heaven, moaning his name, and thrusting into his hand.

I reached for his gorgeous cock, and found him in roughly the same condition I was in: hard, dripping, begging for contact. I mirrored the friction he just provided for me. “John, John, fuck” he groaned into my neck, and he began pushing into my hand. “Feel so good, so good…” he chanted.

“Sherlock,” I huffed out, a bit desperate. ”Anyway we can slow this down a bit?”

His eyes, the pupils blown wide; he looked overwhelmed with desire, a little delirious, as if he weren’t quite here all the way. HIs brow furrowed slightly and he nodded. He gently rolled me onto my back and took both of my hands pinning them above my head. He lay on top of me, between my legs, raising himself slightly off of me with the other arm, and looked deeply into my eyes, kissing my forehead, my jaw, the bridge of my nose. “So beautiful…” he sighed between kisses. “So beautiful…”

I felt hot tears. This was undoubtedly one of the most tender moments I’d ever experienced during sex, and this…what? Being both dominated and adored? Not something I think I’d ever had before. Nope. Never had this before. I loved it. I absolutely loved it. I would not have predicted this about myself, but it seemed to be a day for me to be smashing through expectations, definitions, categories.

“You’re amazing…so gorgeous…. perfect…” I whispered to him.

He released my hands and put an arm on either side of my head. His kisses had become more frenzied, more impassioned, his mouth roaming over my neck, my shoulders, my chest. He’d stilled his hips for both our sakes, but the pent up sexual energy seemed to need some outlet, which it found between his mouth and my skin. My cock may not have been getting direct stimulation, but it did not get that memo and increased its pulsing, throbbing, in a way I found harder and harder to control.

“Oh Sherlock…” I moaned, and pushed up against him, feeling the delicious pull that would not relent.

“I know…” he panted, turning us to face each other again.

He reached between us, his large artist’s hand finding both our cocks, stroking, caressing, my cock against his, both of us in his hand. “God….God…” was all I could get out. I was drowning in arousal.

With any remaining brain cells I had operating, I marveled at his skill. His intuition in knowing how to approach this with me was overwhelming. If orgasms were mountain climbing, he’d deftly guided me up one the steepest slopes I’d ever known, with ease, passion, love?

_“Everest, Dr. Watson?”_

_“Lead on, Mr. Holmes!”_

And here we were, about to share a mountain of an orgasm together. As if he’d read the owner’s manual for my body. As if he’d written it.

I was so close to the edge, and so was he. The look in his eye was wild—what a thrill. He was as enthralled with me, with my body, my sounds, my hands, as I was with him. I reached between us, my hand touching his, longing to feel the both of us at once. I took up the rhythm he’d set, and he rewarded me by moaning my name again and again. With his free hand he reached behind my arse, and raised my thigh over his own leg.

Then he did the two things that have always, always driven me mad with desire. Of course he did.

He reached below me and gently fondled my bollux and he leaned into my neck, and gently bit down. “Fuck…fuck…Sherlock..” I cried out.

That was it. I could not see, could not hear, my whole world dissolving into falling stars within and around me, an orgasm I’d never seen the likes of before, pounding through me, splitting me in two. I think it was me I heard shouting, although his voice raised too as he stiffened and spilled over my hand, my my belly, my thighs.

As soon as I regained control of my musculature, I drew him to me in a tight embrace. I couldn’t help but smile, and then laugh lightly. “Well….” I started. I felt like I should say something. Applaud, maybe, hand out an award. “That was…amazing." I breathed into his hair, kissing the top of his head. "Extraordinary…quite extraordinary.” He seemed to remember the words too. 

He pulled back slightly and looked smug. Ah, there’s my old Sherlock; I was well acquainted with smug. “Yes, I figured it’d better be good,” he intoned, “if you’re going to walk away from your marriage for me.”

I could feel the joy crumple into guilt, sadness, as the realization of what had occurred today revisited with a stab. His face fell; he looked almost panicked.

“John…John, I...I’m sorry.” He clutched me to him again, his back tense in my arms. “Molly is right, of course. I’m always saying the wrong things, the most horrible things.”

I sighed into his shoulder. “No, no you’re right. That is what happened today, and I’m going to have to face it.” I paused, trying to gather my thoughts.

“Listen, its complicated,” I continued. “I am _so_ happy to be here with you.” He seemed to relax, stroking my back. I huffed out a small laugh. “Thank God you kissed me last night.”

“Thank God you kissed back,” he whispered, his breath ghosting the shell of my ear.

Holding him like that, I felt such emotion, such tenderness, such.....love, but somehow it just seemed too much, too soon to say; I should wait.

He sighed into my shoulder. “I love you…” he stated simply.

Well, so much for that. “I love you too.” I replied.

After a moment, he leaned back and looked me straight in the eye. “I love you, John Watson” he said, his eyes serious, but the barest hint of a  smile.

 _Brave,_ I thought. _I’ll see you and raise you._ I cleared my throat and spoke slowly. “Sherlock Holmes, I love you.”

He embraced me again and began to cry softly. I felt so close to him, but suddenly felt an overwhelming burst of fatigue. On a good day, I can get pretty sleepy after a good orgasm. On a terrible day, after a monumental orgasm, well, I’m pretty much done in.

 

Sherlock:

 

I couldn’t help but shed a few tears. John was as good a lover as he was perfect a man, and I felt again astonished at my good fortune. Tears of gratitude, then? Love?

“Sherlock…” he said. “I’m sorry, love, but I’m literally falling asleep as I talk.” I kissed the top of his head, stroking his hair. He called me “love.” I was in heaven.

“Its okay,” I said.

Then, his words coming out sleep slurred, he said the two most beautiful things, up there with "Possibly a serial killer," or "Mycroft is jealous of you...," things like his.  He said,

“Just hold me while I sleep for a while,” and “when I wake up, I want to tell you everything.”

And that is exactly what happened.


End file.
